Across the Face of the World by Russell Kirkpatrick Read Free Book Online Page B

her up, lad; I've got a favour to ask her.'
    The farmer moved stiffly over to the fire, not even looking to see whether Leith carried out his instruc-tions.
    Indrett dressed and followed her younger son out to where the old farmer stood rubbing some feeling back into his hands. 'Isn't it a little early to be making social calls?' she said shortly.
    Kurr grunted an acknowledgement. 'I need your boy for the day,' he grated. 'Got some sheep to shift. I'll put in a day around the house after Midwinter. Most High knows you need it,' he said, gesturing towards the corner-post. 'That'll never stand up to another strong wind. I can replace it. Do we have an agreement?'
    The woman put her hands on her hips. What sort of a man would refuse to help with Midwinter and then seek assistance moving a few sheep about? Maybe Herza was right. 'It's up to the boy.'
    The farmer narrowed his eyes. 'You know where I live,' he said to Leith. 'Be there soon, boy.
    There's a lot of work to do.' He nodded again, but as he turned away Leith thought he saw a troubled look in the proud man's eye. Indrett gently closed the door behind the departing farmer.
    She looked at her son, who sat in a chair and stared into the fire. Eventually he sighed and turned to his mother. 'Will you take care of the breakfast? I think I'll go and help Kurr.'
    'You haven't forgotten about the Play?' It was an unnecessary question. She could tell he had not forgotten.
    The day before Midwinter was the day when the Haufuth selected the Players for the Midwinter Play. Indrett knew that all of the young people of the village would stay home today, waiting for that knock at the door which heralded the Haufuth's invita¬tion to play Snaer, Sumar or Falla. Her thoughts drifted as she remembered that special Midwinter in Rammr when she had been chosen to play the Falla, the harbinger of spring, the part trad¬itionally played by a young woman. Rammr, the capital city of Firanes, the seat of the King's Court, celebrated Midwinter just like anywhere else in Firanes. It had been Ansula, the most senior of the King's officials, who had knocked on the door of her father's house and who had placed the delicate Flowermask in her trem¬bling young hands. An honour for any young woman, an especial honour for one not born to the noble houses, but that year Indrett had been the flower of the Firanes Court. An honour for the most presentable young virgin of the land, as the tradition said. An invocation of fertility. So Ansula had chosen her.
    Ansula had not known about her father.
    That Midwinter's night had been special; she had indeed been the centre of the huge celebration, beside which Midwinter in Loulea seemed pale and mundane. Dancing on the marble floor of the Great Hall, heady wine, the murmured compliments of many a lord, a smile from the King himself, gossip and laughter, the handsome, stone-chiselled face of a softly spoken Trader from the north ... and the unbelievable, never-to-be-expected sensation of falling in love. Her breath still caught in her throat whenever she thought of that night.
    Leith shook his head. 'I haven't forgotten,' he said wryly. 'But what can I do? Not much chance I'll be chosen, anyway.'
    As he went to get his boots and overcoat, he asked himself what he was doing. Of all the days of the year, why today? Of all the people of the Vale, why him? He peered through the shutters. The weather was cold but clear, and Leith could clearly see the treacherous layer of ice that had formed overnight. A dangerous day to be outside.
    Leith hurried through the dark village and on to the Westway, being careful to run on the crackling grass rather than on the icy, rutted road. The youth could feel the cold rising from the ground, biting through his furs, his woollen hat and mittens, and his snug straw-filled felt boots. He shuddered and pressed on. A pale light spread slowly from the mountains behind him, lending a faint glow to the downs before him.

    The road to Stibbourne